It's Just a Flesh Wound
by Roselna
Summary: "No, Sherlock," John said firmly. "Tell me what happened to your head." Sherlock tipped his head back and sighed. He looked thoroughly debauched, lips swollen and color high on his cheekbones. "I was chasing the kidnapper. I didn't account for his accomplice recovering from unconsciousness as quickly as he did," Sherlock said. "It's just a flesh wound." First kiss/first time.


John was used to Sherlock disappearing for a few hours or so. It was a normal occurrence to come home from work and find an empty flat and for Sherlock not to return until John was rising again the next day. What was not a normal occurrence was for the cycle of absence to repeat for three days.

John ran his fingers through his hair for what felt like the thousandth time that evening. Sherlock had not answered any of his texts for the past seventy two hours. He'd already phoned Lestrade and been informed that Sherlock was fine, he was working with the Met on a high-profile case that was being completely closed to the public. There had been a fight to even get Sherlock on the case.

That had been two days ago.

Now, even Lestrade wasn't answering John's texts. John assumed that the cause was being busy trying to solve the case as quickly as possible, but he couldn't help but be nervous. The nature of the cases Sherlock liked to work on, would fight to work on, tended to be the cases that he could get into the most trouble on, and knowing this fact did nothing to ease John's worries.

But he could no t do anything about it, so John made another cup of tea (was it his fourth? Or the fifth?) and settled in his chair. There was a book open on his lap, but he couldn't remember what the title of it was, let alone actually focus on the words on the page. He was too busy conjuring up images of Sherlock chasing a faceless thug down an alley and getting clobbered from behind with a pipe. Sherlock leaning too far over the edge of the Thames and falling in because he thought he saw some scrap of evidence. Sherlock saying the wrong thing to the people this high-profile case revolved around and getting them put on another person's "To Murder" list.

John was in the middle of considering exactly how many lists of that nature Sherlock had talked his way onto when he heard footfalls on the stairs. A few seconds passed, and then Sherlock burst through the door to the flat.

"I solved it, John!" His voice was gleeful. "A fantastic case! Oh, it was Christmas."

John was frozen in his chair, momentarily stunned by the flood of relief and anger coursing through him.

Sherlock whirled around the living room, babbling on about a flawless-to-the-Met murder-come-kidnapping as he unwound his scarf and shrugged off his coat. John scrambled out of his chair, suddenly unfrozen. He was across the room in a heartbeat, surprising Sherlock by crowding him into the corner once the detective turned around from hanging up his coat.

"John," Sherlock said. John reached forward, grabbing the lapels of Sherlock's suit jacket. "What are you—"

Then the detective was silent, because John yanked him down and pressed his lips Sherlock's. Months of denying a relationship and squashing down feelings went out the window, but John couldn't bring himself to care. It was like sparks going off behind his eyes, and he wondered at how long it had taken for him to do this. He pulled back slowly and looked up at Sherlock. The detective's face was one of shock.

"Three days," John growled. "Do you have any idea how worried I was?" And then he recaptured Sherlock's lips, marveling at how easy it was to do now that he'd done it once. He felt Sherlock's hands land on his waist, then start fluttering around, as if Sherlock couldn't decide where to put them before settling on John's head, Sherlock's long fingers carding through John's hair, pulling John closer as Sherlock began to kiss _back_.

John felt a drop of arousal roll down his spine, heady and powerful as his hands traveled up from the lapels of Sherlock's jacket and onto his shoulders and_bloody hell why didn't he do this ages ago?_ John's hands snaked up from Sherlock's shoulders and into the detective's hair, the urge to finally thread his fingers through the dark curls nearly overwhelming.

Once his fingers got there, though, John froze, his eyes snapping open. He pulled back, his and Sherlock's lips separating with an obscene wet noise that, had he not just touched what felt like _dried blood_, would have only amped up John's arousal. Instead, what had been the hopeful beginnings of an erection wilted away as concern quickly overtook whatever else had been on John's mind.

Sherlock keened and tried to chase John's lips as he pulled away.

"No, Sherlock," John said firmly. "Tell me what happened to your head."

Sherlock tipped his head back and sighed as if John was being particularly dull. He looked thoroughly debauched, lips swollen and color high on his cheekbones. Part of John leapt and marveled at the fact that _he had done that_ while another, larger part focused on the fact that Sherlock had a head injury that needed attention.

"I was chasing the kidnapper. I didn't account for his accomplice recovering from unconsciousness as quickly as he did," Sherlock said, allowing himself to be pulled into the kitchen. John pushed him down into one of the chairs at the table. "It's just a flesh wound," Sherlock insisted.

John frowned and nudged Sherlock's head forward. Now that he was looking at it, John wasn't sure how he had missed the matted hair in the first place. Blood crusted Sherlock's curls, holding them rigidly in place like some sort of disgusting gel, effectively hiding Sherlock's scalp from view. John moved some of Sherlock's hair to get a better look, but before he could accomplish anything, Sherlock reared back and hissed.

John looked down at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow. "Just a flesh wound?"

Sherlock glared. John ignored him, tipping Sherlock's head forward to look at the bloodied locks again. "I need to clean this out," he announced, stepping back and pulling Sherlock up out of the chair and towards the bathroom.

Sherlock wiggled like a five year old in John's grasp. "I am perfectly capable of washing my own hair, John."

"Not with a wound on the back of your head, you aren't," John retorted. He shouldered the bathroom door open. Letting go of Sherlock, John slipped into the detective's bedroom and snagged the chair that typically stayed by the wardrobe. John pulled it into the bathroom with him and placed it by the sink. Sherlock was still standing in the middle of the bathroom, arms crossed petulantly. "Sit," John said, gesturing to the chair.

Sherlock unfolded his arms and slid down into the chair, rolling his eyes and glaring at John as if it was at great personal cost that he was deigning to sit. John smiled fondly, and a small part of him delighted at the fact that if he could kiss this impossible man he surely could smile fondly as well.

John turned the tap on, letting the water run until it was warm. Then he began slowly rinsing the dried blood out of Sherlock's hair.

At first, Sherlock was tense, his jaw set. Slowly, though, the detective relaxed into John's gentle ministrations, his head growing heavier in John's hands as Sherlock made less of an effort to hold it up himself.

John didn't dare try to use any sort of shampoo before he'd gotten a proper look at the wound, so he simply kept running water through Sherlock's hair, even after it had started running clear instead of red. The task was peaceful, and Sherlock's hair was silky between John's fingers.

Sherlock made a pleased rumbling sound in the back of his throat, and John smiled again. Without thinking, he bent down and pressed his lips against Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock made another pleased noise. John straightened and flicked water off of his hand, then turned the tap off. "Alright. Let's have a look," he said, reaching for the hand towel.

Sherlock sighed as he sat up. John was vaguely surprised at how sleepy he sounded, but ignored it in favor of gently wiping away moisture before it could drip down Sherlock's neck and escape down the back of his shirt.

The thought of chasing a bead of water down Sherlock's neck with his tongue flashed through John's mind.

John blinked, then filed the thought away for later examination as he draped the towel over Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock tipped his head down without any prompting, and John carefully began carding through Sherlock's hair to find the injury.

"I don't think it needs stitches," John said, eyeing the surprisingly shallow gash critically.

"I told you," Sherlock murmured.

"You would've been concerned if you saw the amount of blood."

"Head wounds do tend to bleed profusely, Doctor," Sherlock said.

"Shut up, you." John rounded the chair and crouched so that he was eye level with Sherlock. "Do you have any kind of headache? Dizziness?" John asked as he checked Sherlock's pupil dilation.

"I'm not concussed, John."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. You also said it was just a flesh wound."

"It was just a flesh wound, was it not?"

John frowned and was about to make another sarcastic retort when he noticed the playful light in Sherlock's eyes. He fought to keep from smiling as he said, "You're a bastard."

"Mmm," Sherlock agreed, before leaning forward enough to press his lips against John's.

This kiss was not like either of the two John had initiated in the living room. It was soft and gentle instead of hard pressure. John placed his hands on the back of Sherlock's neck, one creeping up and starting to stroke through Sherlock's still-damp curls, mindful of the cut. Sherlock exhaled heavily, and John smiled against his lips.

Tentatively, John parted his lips and gently began to trace Sherlock's lips with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock moaned, plush lips parting as his hands came up and threaded into John's hair.

he arousal that had fled so quickly upon the discovery of the dried blood came flooding back to John as he slowly explored the inside of Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock only urged on the desire, fingers tightening in John's hair as he tried to press as close as possible. John groaned as Sherlock hesitantly dipped his tongue into John's mouth.

A few moments later, John pulled away. Sherlock looked across at him with bright eyes, chest heaving. After a moment's deliberation, John stood. He pulled Sherlock up with him, and then into the detective's bedroom. John was already more than a little hard. He let go of Sherlock's hand and stood by the bed. "Is this okay?" he asked, a bit of nervousness coming over him as he turned towards Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled, then walked forward. "Oh, John," he said, his voice low and rough as he backed John against the bed. One large hand came forward, and pushed John so he was lying on his back. Sherlock followed, hovering over him and grinning down. Whatever dominance John had held previously was gone, Sherlock taking complete control.

John felt his heartbeat kick up exponentially as Sherlock lowered his head to John's ear. "You've no idea how _long_ I've been waiting." John's breathing took on a ragged edge as Sherlock started mouthing at his neck. "How long I've been _watching_." Everywhere Sherlock's mouth went left a trail of fire on John's skin. He gasped when Sherlock sucked at the base of his neck. John fumbled as his hands snuck under Sherlock's jacket, trying to untuck Sherlock's shirt from his trousers. "I know exactly how to take you apart," Sherlock murmured, lips still on John's neck.

John moaned again, fingers finding warm flesh underneath expensive fabric. Sherlock made an approving noise and John could feel the vibrations against his skin. His hips bucked up, seeking any type of friction to relieve the tightness of his jeans. Sherlock lifted up. His silver eyes darted over John, and then long fingers plucked at John's jumper. "Off," Sherlock said, standing up fully and shucking off his own jacket, then starting on the buttons of his shirt.

John hastened to comply, hauling his jumper and shirt over his head. He pulled off his socks without a second thought, but hesitated for a moment before stripping off his jeans. He shifted on the bed, moving to the middle of it. Anticipation was singing in his veins.

The bed shifted as Sherlock climbed on, also naked but for his pants. "Lie back," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, you don't have to do this," John said, lying back none the less. He hoped Sherlock would, though. Sherlock climbed up the bed until he was hovering over John again.

Sherlock gave John a smile that sent another wave of desire down John's spine. "John," Sherlock said, his voice sinfully deep. "Have you ever known me to do anything I don't wish to do?"

John shivered, and Sherlock ducked down again to kiss him. And now, with Sherlock leading, John was _kissed_. Kissed within an inch of his life, until the only thoughts in his head were _Sherlock _and _more_ and _yes_. He reached up and ran his hands over Sherlock's back before threading his fingers into fine curls once more. His hips bucked up again, but Sherlock and any source of friction was out of reach. John whined in the back of his throat, and Sherlock shushed him around kisses.

"I want this slow," Sherlock rumbled, moving from John's lips to trace the shell of John's ear with his tongue. "Let me."

John's breath stuttered out, his heart faltering before swelling. _You are in love with this mad bastard_, he thought as he nodded.

All of Sherlock's attention was on John as he mouthed his ear, tugging gently on the lobe with his teeth. John gasped as he arched up again, and this time Sherlock was close enough to brush his against. He heard Sherlock chuckle, and then he slowly dragged his tongue from John's ear down his neck.

John arched his neck, offering more access as Sherlock licked and kissed and then he started _sucking_ and oh god, John couldn't remember the last time some heated snogging had gotten him this wound up so quickly. Then Sherlock bit down, and John yelped as his hips thrust up of their own violation.

He was panting as Sherlock licked over where he had bit, soothing the abrasion. "What the hell was that?" John managed.

Sherlock lifted his head, and the intensity of his silvery-blue gaze made John feel a bit dizzy. Sherlock's lips were red and kiss-swollen, parted in a devilish smile. "I already told you," he said, and John thought that his voice should not be allowed to sound like that, so deep and rough that the sound seemed hardwired to go directly to John's cock. "I know exactly how to take you apart."

And then Sherlock leaned over and bit the other side of John's neck. John gasped again, and though he'd never really considered himself to have a thing for biting, the way his hips jumped seemed to say otherwise.

Sherlock continued down John's neck, alternating between kissing and sucking and biting to John's collarbone. He dipped his tongue into hollow the bone made, tasting the sheen of sweat that had broken out over John's body. John was panting. Every time Sherlock's mouth touched him, fissions of heat exploded down John's spine, and the thought occurred to him that this might be over far too quickly.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind that Sherlock stopped, and shifted up. John lifted his head. "You okay?" he asked, his voice breathy and wrecked.

Sherlock was staring at the scar on his left shoulder. "This is what brought you to me," he said. One long pale finger traced it carefully. John was silent, unsure of how to tell Sherlock to continue on without sounding demanding. It was a scar, gnarled and ugly, and John tried not to let his thoughts linger on it most days. He ended up making some noise of assent, enough that Sherlock was spurred out of his thoughts enough to drop one tender kiss on the scar and then move on to a nipple, which sent John's head slamming back into the pillow.

Sherlock kissed what felt like every part of John's body. He was able to pick out the spots that were directly wired to John's cock with eerie accuracy, finding ones John had known about (that one spot along the line of his ribs) and ones he hadn't (the inside of the right knee, which had made him jerk and Sherlock grin with manic delight.) By the time Sherlock made it to his thighs, John was covered in red spots that would be bruises in the morning, panting like he'd run a marathon, and harder than he could ever remember being.

If Sherlock's earlier behavior was anything to go by, John would have expected a torturous trail of lips up his thighs and deliberate avoidance of his cock. Which went to show that, with Sherlock, one can never expect anything, because, instead of extending his incredible torture, Sherlock bypassed John's thighs entirely.

"Jesus!" John gasped, jerking up when Sherlock's mouth was on him through his pants. "Sherlock- Sherlock, I'm-" And then it was over, waves of pleasure crashing over him.

John fell back against the mattress, completely spent. He felt the mattress shift, and he managed to open his eyes enough to find Sherlock hovering over him. "You came in your pants," Sherlock stated.

John huffed, then somehow found the energy to shimmy out of said pants and kick them away.

"So it was good?" Sherlock asked, rolling to the side and stretching out next to John.

John propped himself up on his elbow. "Good?" he repeated. "Sherlock, I haven't come in my pants since I was a teenager." John rolled himself on top of Sherlock. "Try bloody _fantastic_." Then he leaned down and kissed him, licking into Sherlock's mouth without preamble.

Let it never be said that John Watson does not give as good as he gets.

John was not Sherlock in the sense that he could deduce hot spots just by looking at them; however, he hadn't gotten the nickname 'Three Continents Watson' for lack of skill.

Sherlock made a surprised noise as he found himself on the receiving end of such attention. John cupped Sherlock's head with his hands, sucking on his plush bottom lip. He scraped gently with his teeth, and Sherlock gasped into John's mouth, hips bucking up and John could feel Sherlock's stiff cock grind against his thigh. John grinned against Sherlock's lips, then pulled away and started trailing kisses up and down Sherlock's neck while he let one of his hands wander down Sherlock's body, bumping over ribs and sliding down over smooth belly. He brushed his hand over the bulge between Sherlock's legs.

The reaction was astounding.

Sherlock let out a gasp that quickly turned into a groan, his hands raking down John's back as his hips bucked up.

John stared down. A flush had spread over Sherlock's chest. His eyes were scrunched closed and he was breathing heavily out of his nose. A grin broke over John's face, and he leaned down to press his lips on Sherlock's forehead. "I can stop if it's too much," he murmured.

Sherlock's eyes flew open. He shook his head, hands coming up to rest on the back of John's neck. "No, it's-it's fine." He closed his eyes again and took a stuttering breath. "I'm fine. Just not used to...this."

John braced himself on one arm and used his free hand to cup Sherlock's cheek. He tapped one finger against warm skin, and Sherlock opened his eyes again. "Are you sure?" John asked. "Because it's no big deal if you-"

"John," Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes. "Don't be an idiot." Then, to prove how sure he was, Sherlock rolled his hips against John's thigh.

Despite himself, John chuckled. He pressed another kiss to Sherlock's forehead, then shifted to mouth at Sherlock's jawline as his hand stroked right above the top of Sherlock's pants. Sherlock let out a breathy whine, and John smiled against pale skin. "Impatient bastard," he said fondly, then slipped his hand underneath the waistband and down to touch Sherlock's cock for the first time.

Sherlock's gasp was cut off by a wanton moan, his eyes fluttering shut as John began to stroke him, gently but firmly. It was a matter of seconds before Sherlock was babbling, John's name interspersed with cut-off curses and groans. John was clever with his fingers, and he could feel Sherlock's muscles tightening beneath him.

John pressed their foreheads together. "It's alright, love," he said. "You're fine. I've got you. Come on, let go."

Sherlock's next breath stuttered, and then his back was arching and John's hand was being coated in wet come. "There you go," he whispered, stroking Sherlock through it before slowing down and stopping entirely. He withdrew his hand, then gently pulled Sherlock's now-ruined pants down over his legs. Sherlock made no move to help, and John stroked his clean hand through Sherlock's curls before trotting into the bathroom and cleaning himself up, then returning to the bedroom with a wet flannel. He wiped Sherlock down, careful of his oversensitive cock, then tossed the rag back into the bathroom and crawled back into the bed.

John's first instinct was the wrap himself around Sherlock, but he was suddenly wary. Sherlock hardly seemed like the cuddling type.

_But then_, he thought, _he hardly seemed like the type to have sex before tonight._ Before John could decide, Sherlock huffed a sigh.

"Shut up," he rumbled, then rolled over and wrapped his long limbs around John's body. John tensed for a split second, then relaxed into Sherlock's jellyfish-like vise.

"I didn't say anything," John said, smiling as he smoothed his hands up the warm planes of Sherlock's back.

"You were thinking."

John's smile grew a bit as he shook his head fondly, then pressed a kiss to Sherlock's temple. "Not going to give me a lecture about sentiment, are you?" he asked.

Sherlock sighed. "I could, but it'd be rather hypocritical of me," he said, shifting a little so that his head was pillowed on John's shoulder, like his statement hadn't caused John's heart to suddenly kick its pace up a few notches. "As would any further comments about coming in pants."

John chuckled, then buried his nose in Sherlock's hair to keep the words "I love you" from bubbling out of his mouth. He settled for pressing gentle kisses to the crown of Sherlock's head, until Sherlock sighed happily and his breathing started to even as he drifted off to sleep. John smiled fondly down at him. He could save the words for later.


End file.
